


Cigarettes and Lollipops

by Llamadramaphan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Light Angst, Mentions of Bobby Singer, Smoking, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, mentions of John Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 17:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10366077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llamadramaphan/pseuds/Llamadramaphan
Summary: They don't know when it happened.All they do know is that there's no more lollipops within the pockets of Dean's 'big boy' jacket, but little packets that bruised fingers swept in there when the cashier wasn't looking.All they know is that it won't kill them, for they'll be going in far more violent ways.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I actually really enjoy writing little shorts about the Winchesters in their teen years, so much so, that I'm actually worried for my own mental health's sake. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this even though there's no mentions of actual Wincest, or that it could at least entertain you a bit for the time being.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated xx

„We ain’t poor.“  
Dean keeps repeating himself, like the broken records Bobby used to try and fail to keep away from Sam’s exploring little hands. Sam has the feeling, his brother will continue to repeat himself until his tongue falls off, that pink little thing that sticks out of plush lips when he plays around with that portable MP3 player of his, which he sometimes will hold up triumphantly, as if to rub it under Sam’s nose that he’s the older brother that gets to have fun with technology whilst Sam is left with dirty books and the means of his own imagination. Which, thankfully, is not as poor as the rest of him. (No matter what Dean insists on).  
A few years back, he even used to enjoy the colours which seemed to fill his head, the music and countless recollections of conversation he’s had, with both his father and Dean – maybe a little draft of Bobby’s droopy voice at the back.  
It’s always those two (maybe three) voices in the end.  
No one else.  
All those others, the ones that he hears in passing when they stop by at a gas station or make a quick journey through the next convenient shop, those disappear. Droopy voices, low voices, high voices, voices that sometimes linger for a few minutes that Sam spends with his eyes half-closed and hands intertwined with Dean’s as they cross the street hastily, with little secrets from the supermarket stored in the seemingly endlessly big pockets of that jacket Dad got Dean last Christmas. It’s a big jacket, the kind of jacket that makes girls swoon and guys get all red-eyed when they see it, as Dad said when he helped Dean’s bony arms reach into the fabric.  
Sam always wondered, whenever the voices left his head and were replaced by the usual ones, where he got it from.  
Where he got that jacket from, that feels like actual leather and smells like ‘legit-rich-people-shit’ as Dean would sometimes say, when they’d sit on the Impala’s hood and stare down the people passing by, blurred faces with the same expressions as they see the two strung down boys sit there, with lollipops sticking out of their hungry mouths. Distaste. Pity. Legit rich people shit.  
Well, it used to be lollipops at least.  
Now, a cigarette has joined the sweet sucker that sticks out of Sam’s mouth, joined the party and sits right between Dean’s luscious (as Sam’s heard them be described by someone who he’s already forgotten, once) lips. They don’t seem ‘luscious’ to Sam. The word Luscious in itself seems to Sam like some proper rich people shit and he’s learned from the best that that’s some goo you don’t wanna stick your fingers in. Not even your pinkie.  
“Your pinkies to be savoured, Sammy. ‘S for real special things.”  
“Things like what?”  
Dean is just about to shrug nonchalantly (the cool-teenager-way) when the door creaks open. Breaks open rather. And Dean, being the instinct-driven hormonal bag of overloading emotions that he is, jumps up from the sofa as if he’d just been stung by something, arm almost colliding with Sam’s forehead as he seemingly tries shielding the boy from seeing whatever is currently breaking into their ‘not so familiar home’.   
“’s just Dad, De.”  
It’s always just Dad.  
But for Dean, it isn’t.  
Hasn’t been since that day back in spring, when little Sammy’s head collided with the unruly baseball bat of whoever had broken into their motel room, hard wood hitting the boy as he had sat up in the bed, stirred awake by the sound of footsteps by his side. Dean hadn’t woken up.   
Sam suspects that that’s about when Dean stopped going to bed the same time as him – even when his still painfully young lids drooped close and his mouth failed at holding back countless yawns, he’d still remain sat upright in his bed, back to the wall and eyes glued to the door, as if it was an invincible monster he would give his life to in order to defend Sammy from it.  
And when little Sammy would awaken the next morning, he’d be met with a half-dead older brother, who had so obviously forced himself to stay awake for too long and wake up too early than his bony body could take. But he continued on anyway.  
What’s a little self-destruction, when it’s done for your family?  
What’s a little cut at the lip or bruise under the eye, what’s a bit of blood on your screaming knuckles or pain in your cracked bones when it’s all done for family?  
It’s nothing.  
Just like the cigarette between Dean’s (luscious) lips is, glued there since the day he turned 12, just like the voices that move through Sam’s head are.   
“What’cha doing there, buddy?”  
Dean’s tongue drags, drags itself across the inner walls of Dean’s mouth as if it was something intensely hard to do. Just like his knuckles drag across the wall, skin half-way healed up and clean for once, as clean as Dean’s hands could ever be.  
He’s staring at Sam, at the bony little figure, standing there across him, way too big shirt reaching over to hug the middle of his thin thighs, long arms uselessly left to dangle along his sides as he watches Mr. Big brother drag himself into the room, lips etched into a glaring smile that causes Sam’s insides to twirl.  
“I was waiting for you to get home.”  
Dean chuckles.  
The way Dad does.  
It’s such a dad chuckle, that Sam’s eyes almost widen.  
“Well, here I am, Sammy. What’cha wanna do now?”  
The drawl is there, evident in slurred words that pass through Sam’s head so clear as if they had been spoken with the articulation of a university professor – he’s used to the drawl, used to the dragging of tired tongues and half-spoken sentences.  
“Where were you?”  
“Ah come on Sammy.”  
Dean gets closer, lifts one heavy arm to curl around the nape of Sam’s neck.  
They move to the bedroom, legs kicking out in unison.  
“’S my birthday man. ‘M allowed to get a little fucked up.”  
Sam nods, nods like he doesn’t agree. But Dean is not one to press and so they continue their path, until they both sit at the edge of Sam’s bed, mattress creaking whole-heartedly.  
“’T wasn’t that bad Sammy. Just drank a bit. Smoked a bit. Ya know.”  
Dean giggles.  
“Don’t tell Dad though.”  
Sam’s about to shrug, when an idea passes through his mind, like the voices in the supermarket used to do. He looks up at his brother, who in turn stares back, lips curled up in a questioning and droopy smile that Sam would love to frame inside his memories forever.  
“Can I…can I smoke one too? Just to…just to try…”  
He doesn’t know where the urge came from but he’s too tired to care.   
What’s some lung cancer when you’ll die for the family anyway?  
And Dean nods, actually nods and fishes the packet out from under his legit rich people jacket, pools out the bud and sticks it into Sam’s opened lips as if it’s the thing he’s been wanting to do for a while now. His fingers are shaking, which Sam doesn’t notice. Dean doesn’t notice either, lids drooped half-closed as he holds the lighter under Sam’s chin. It’s a cheap one, the first he could reach when he was standing in front of the cashier of that supermarket three towns back.  
Sam inhales and coughs, coughs loudly enough for Dean to spend the next minutes laughing violently.   
Sam shushes him, but Dean only continues.  
“What? Nobody else is here Sammy, I can laugh how loud I fucking want.”  
Sam notices the stagger in his big brother’s voice, but keeps silent about it as he inhales again, lips firmly closed around the cigarette which Dean is still holding for him.  
“Nobody else is here…”  
From then on, Dean has to steal more packets than usual.  
Because now, the lollipops are entirely gone, switched with cigarettes that hang from both brother’s lips as they sit on the hood of the Impala and stare down all the rich people walking by.  
They stare a bit more viciously now.  
But the two of them do so as well.


End file.
